


Routine

by mg0918



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Domesticity, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-23
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:59:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3216692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mg0918/pseuds/mg0918
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy isn't sure how it became a routine, Clarke curling up in his bed every night and him clinging to her like she's his only lifeline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine

Bellamy isn't sure how it became a routine, Clarke curling up in his bed every night and him clinging to her like she's his only lifeline.

The first night was weeks ago. Bellamy had been laying in bed after an exceptionally draining day when the shouting started. He knew immediately it was Clarke, and he chuckled a little as he pictured the rage that would be burning in her eyes, and the way she waves her hands around when trying to make a point. He smiled, because she’s just so damn _adorable_ when she’s mad.

His smile faded soon, though, when the yelling turned to screaming and the fight didn't seem to be ending. He wasn't sure who Clarke was fighting with - probably Abby - but he was just too fucking exhausted to care. He gritted his teeth and rolled onto his stomach to bury his face in the pillow in an attempt to block the noise. It didn't work.

The screaming ended abruptly ten minutes later, and when he finally started to drift off to sleep he heard his tent flap open. He whipped his head around, mouth already open to snap at whoever thought it was a good idea to bother him, and he saw Clarke.

She was standing in the opening with her fists clenched and her teeth gnashing together angrily. He raised an eyebrow in question, and her mouth curved downwards bitterly.

“I just can’t fucking stay with her tonight.” He sighed before nodding and pulling back the blanket for her. She kicked off her boots and laid down stiffly, her muscles still coiled tightly in her rage. She opened her mouth and began to rant about whatever asinine thing her mother had done that day, and in response he wound an arm around her waist and pulled her close. He ignored her squeals of protest and tucked her carefully under his chin. He continued to hold her there securely until he felt her tension and stress start to ebb.

He woke up in the morning to find her still there with her head on his chest and one of her legs thrown over his. He considered moving but that would mean waking her and he _knew_ she hadn't been sleeping lately. When she got up to leave a little while later, she touched his shoulder and smiled before walking out. They didn't talk about it that day, figuring it was a one time thing.

It wasn't.

The next night she was in his tent late, trying to coordinate hunting parties over a shared jar of moonshine. She ended up falling asleep in his bed and they once again woke up in a tangle of blankets and limbs. That time she was embarrassed, stammering out an apology and saying it wouldn't happen again. Bellamy just watched her with a bemused look on his face as she left his tent with a sheepish duck of her head. He was almost disappointed, there was no way she’d let herself fall asleep in there again.

That’s why he wasn't surprised when he saw her stumbling into her own tent that night. He walked back to his bed, trying to shake the feeling of her head on his chest and the comforting weight of her arm thrown over him from his mind. He was almost asleep when he heard the tent flap open. He looked up to see Clarke standing there tentatively, with tears pooling in her eyes. He’d welcomed her with open arms and soothing words, holding her carefully as the tears spilled over and she started to shake. In the morning she had lingered longer than she had to, with her face buried in the crook of his neck and her small fists bunched up in his shirt.

The next night, he’d woken up screaming from a nightmare. The scream had faded to deep, shuddering breaths as he tried to get himself under control. A few seconds later Clarke appeared next to him. She’d climbed into his bed and wrapped herself around him, stroking his hair and whispering words of comfort into his shoulder. As his breathing had come under control, he heard her humming the same song as she had in the woods the day she killed Atom.

After that night it just became routine. She’d trudge into his tent at the end of the day, kick off her boots, peel off her pants, and collapse into his bed. He’s not sure how it became so normal for him to curl up with her at night, but here they are, tangled up in bed with his arms around her and her fingertips tracing lazy circles on his ribs.

Earlier that day he’d walked by the med tent to hear Abby asking Jasper where she could find Clarke and Bellamy, and he’d responded with a shrug, saying they were probably in their tent. _Their_ tent, not his tent. Even through his own surprise, the bitter flash of anger on Abby’s face was gratifying.

So now, as they’re lying in bed, he wonders if it really is _their_ tent. She does have a lot of her stuff here. In fact, as Bellamy looks around the small space, there isn't a corner of the tent unaffected by her presence.

There’s a stack of her sketches on the table next to a tin that holds her three and a half pencils, as well as a pile of herbs she hasn't sorted through yet, a small pile of bandages, and her half-empty jar of moonshine. Her clothes are neatly folded next his tangled pile of shirts(she’ll end up folding them in the morning and then scolding him for not doing it himself) and her boots are set beside his next to the bed. The clumsily woven and lopsided basket she made sits by the tent opening and holds her vials of liquid and powder that she’d gotten from Lincoln, as well as a tin of some soap-like mixture that Monty had made. A small bundle of the leather straps she uses to keep her hair out of her face when she’s working in the med tent is resting next to his gun on the table, and the ragged blanket they use as a towel is hung up to dry.

Okay, it’s definitely their tent.

She raises her head from his chest to look at him with one eyebrow quirked up, and  _fuck_ , she's even wearing one of his shirts (It looks better on her).

“Bellamy?”

“Princess?”

“I can practically hear you thinking.” He chuckles and pulls her head back to his chest before ruffling her hair with his hand.

“Sorry, I was just wondering if you’re ever going to move the rest of your stuff in here.” She goes still.

“What?”

“You’re practically living here anyway, might as well move in officially.”

“You wouldn't mind?” She sounds uncertain.

“Never.” She bites her lip and looks at him for a long moment without saying anything.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” He mumbles, suddenly uncomfortable. He ducks his head almost shyly to avoid her gaze. “It was just an idea.”

“No,” she says quickly, “it’s a good idea, I’ll move my stuff tomorrow.” She looks at him for a minute before quickly - so quickly he thinks he may have imagined it- pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and tucking her head into his chest.

“Go to sleep, Bell.”

“Okay, Princess.” He kisses the top of her head carefully before pulling her closer, trying to tamp down the gleeful fluttering in his stomach.

The next day, he sees her carrying a box of paints and paper out of her tent, leaving Abby standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, glaring at Clarke’s retreating back. She catches sight of Bellamy and her glare sharpens. He can’t help grinning widely at her before taking the box from Clarke’s hands and carrying it to their tent.

 

A few days into the new routine (the same routine, really) Clarke wakes up crying and gasping for breath. She doesn’t hesitate to shake Bellamy awake and bury her face in his shoulder. He’s coming out of a nightmare too, with a scream clawing its way out of his throat, and is clinging to her just as tightly as she is to him. Her fists are balled up in his shirt, and as their breathing starts to return to normal the familiar feeling of relief at her presence starts to bubble up in his chest, because maybe they’re both broken but they’re doing damn good job at holding each other together.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been mulling this one over for a while and just decided to bang it out while procrastinating, hope you enjoy.


End file.
